


Prices and Head Games

by WendyNerd



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Bounty Hunting, Chanteuse, F/M, Gun fights, Most pairings in past, Old West, Troubled pasts, Western AU, past rape tw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2016-11-16
Packaged: 2018-08-31 11:37:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8576998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendyNerd/pseuds/WendyNerd
Summary: After discovering a few of her secrets, would-be-railroad-heir-turned-bounty-hunter Jon Targaryen seeks out his cousin Sansa. He wants vengeance on her behalf, seeking to take down notorious and elusive criminal mastermind Petyr Baelish. But Sansa's secrets and intentions go far beyond anything Jon ever expected.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So, been on a Bruce Campbell kick lately, which led me to seek out his old TV show, The Adventures of Brisco County Jr. Which in turn inspired whatever the fuck this is. Not an AU person, and this is unbeta'd, so fair warning.

She wears what he imagines must be one of her costumes, though not the one she wore onstage. Twenty minutes earlier, she was teasing bar patrons in black lace and emerald silk, fringe hanging under her breasts, shoulders, and bloomers. The way it shook as she moved made them holler loud enough to drown out both the piano and her singing. A shame, too. Sansa could actually sing.

A robe, sheer as mist, is draped over her shoulders, but open enough to give an observer more than a peek at her underpinnings. She’s in baby blue and white satin, little blue bows decorate the hooks of her garter belt and the tops of her breasts. How she changed so quickly amazes him. He wonders when she was last truly out of costume.

Sansa hovers by the window overlooking the dusty main street. Her dressing room looks like far more than anything Jackson Village Saloon should provide, but Jon suspects that’s her doing. There are bouquets on every surface, there’s a new dress screen in the corner, painted with scenes of swans swimming in a shimmering lake, and the chaise in the back is covered with a large sheet of blue silk.

She always finds a way to try and transform whatever place she visits into something better. Jon feels like he’s stepped out of the sandy, burnt Arizona streets into a fairy tale. Not that he belongs in one. He’s every bit as rough and dirty as main street itself. He’s almost forgot what it’s like to enter a place that doesn’t smell of sawdust and horses. Almost. Thinking of Sansa always reminded him. As a boy, he thought her fussy and silly. He ended up missing that more than he ever imagined.

He knows she’s gone without practically everything and anything a person can be denied at one point or another over the years. She’s always survived, and she holds onto whatever she has at any moment for comfort. The beautiful things she surrounds herself with now don’t seem superficial the way they may have once. She’s more than earned them. EVery bit of splendor that surrounds them, she worked and paid for, having lost her family and inheritance so long ago. She’s worked her way West and made herself a star, acquired her own fortune. There were thousands of saloon ingenues in the West. It took blood, sweat, and tears to get to Sansa’s level. There’s not a luxury here that doesn’t belong to her by right.

And they’re little compensation for the things she’s lost.

Jon wonders if his appearance might bring her some deeper happiness than what her silver brushes, Parisian perfumes, and crystal wine glasses can provide. If thoughts of him have comforted her at all over the years, the way thoughts of her have warmed him.

This is not the first time they’ve seen one another since the Starks began to scatter all those years ago. Since they seemed to lose everyone else. Despite their efforts, though, they didn’t manage to remain together after their first reunion. Or their second.

It’s more his fault than hers. He’s been caught up in so many things, all while running from it all. He’s failed her more than once.

Now he’s here to do it again.

Jon stalls, awkwardly dusting off his jacket and pants, removing his stetson. Sansa glances at him, her expression unreadable. Life has taught her to guard herself, trust no one, betray nothing. Jon realizes he is right: she is never out of costume. She never quite leaves the stage, either. If his appearance brings her joy, she’ll decide whether or not he gets to know.

“H-Hello, Sansa,” he says nervously, walking towards her, “Long time, no see.”

Jon feels like an idiot. Long time, no see? It’s a statement of uneven truth. Both of them have achieved a high enough level of fame over the years for word of each to reach the other. Both of them have had their pictures in every paper from San Francisco to Boston. Modern technology has allowed him to witness her face with unbelievable realism from thousands of miles away. But it feels like a lifetime has passed since he’s been in her presence. And not even the miracle of photographs can quite capture her in full.

Jon’s faced down a half dozen men, pistols drawn, and been saved by his instincts. He’s escaped being bound and thrown in the Mississippi. He’s come to be known as being utterly fearless. The man whose shocking origins have allowed a literal fortune and empire to be at his fingertips, but chooses to make his living as a bounty hunter instead.

Here, though, he’s unsure, he’s frightened. He’s at a loss. A thousand contradictory instincts rage within him.

It’s not that she’s beautiful. It’s that she’s Sansa.

He clears his throat. “You’re back to the red,” he remarks, “I’m so glad.”

That’s true. Her mane is fastened in a loose ponytail by a blue satin ribbon, and hangs over her shoulder, shining in the Arizona sunlight. She’d been a brunette for much, much too long. As gorgeous as she was with either color, this was her. And the reason for that raven dye job wasn’t exactly pleasant.

Unfortunately, that’s also the reason he’s here.

“I’m happy you like it,” she replies, twirling a lock of it around one slender, white finger. Her blue eyes narrow and scan him. “Speaking of hair, yours has grown. Your beard is carefully groomed, so it’s not for a lack of trips to the barber. Any particular reason for this, then?”

Jon blushes and runs a hand through his hair. “I know it’s not practical for my lifestyle. I just… I don’t know.”

“You have the face for it,” she says. She swallows and turns from the window to face him completely. “Tell me, is it an accident that after all this time, we run across each other in this travel-stop whiskey town?”

Jon steps back. Caught. His stomach sinks. He’s been rehearsing this for weeks now. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t.

“Sansa… I visited your cousin in New York.” Jon reluctantly reaches into his jacket. He pulls out a packet of letters. Sansa goes still but for her eyes, which widen. “He gave me some letters that had come for you. And I—”

“—You read them.” She whispers this, then turns away. But she doesn’t look out onto the street. Instead, she faces the curtains as if she wishes to disappear into them.

Jon feels his heart break. Again.

“I wouldn’t have, but you might have had affairs that needed seeing to and I wasn’t sure how to get in touch with you in time to have you settle them on your own. I never expected—” His voice dies. There’s a moment of helplessness. It is promptly replaced by the usual fury.

“I’m going to hunt him down, Sansa. I’m going to make him pay.”

At this, she spins around. “Pay? There’s no price for what he took from me!”

Jon steps back further, dropping the letters. “I didn’t mean it like that, I swear. But something must be done, Sansa. I cannot stand to let him remain free knowing—”

“I don’t care about what you cannot or cannot stand!” She snaps. “He doesn’t do it to you! It’s not about you!”

Jon wants to protest, but his investigative instincts kick in. “Wait, what do you mean, ‘doesn’t’?”

No. Not possible. He couldn’t be… Littlefinger had been on the run from the law for years now. How could he still be doing anything to her? And how could she still be…

Sansa fists part of the drapes, as if clinging to them. “Nothing, Jon. I meant—”

“—You meant what you said, Sansa,” Jon says, mouth dry, “He’s still—?”

There’s a long silence. Sansa finally turns around, tears streaming down her face. “I haven’t seen him in five years. But he’s never stopped sending me messages. I have my maid open all my letters. But he always finds a way to get around it. People at parties or on the street will come up to me and repeat whatever he pays them to tell me. I get gifts with cards or sometimes things with words built into them. I got a gown with a letter embroidered into the lining. Or he’ll just send me things. No words, but things, and there will be something so that I know it’s from him. He’s bought off papers to write gossip pieces about me. Or other little things— fake engagement announcements about Miss Alayne Stone to marry Mr. Petyr M. Bird. He’ll put out word about things he knows will catch my attention— rumors about Arya, Bran, or Rickon being spotted, things like that, just to play with me. He may be a wanted man, but he still has so, so many resources. And he’s obsessed with me still. It doesn’t matter that he hasn’t put his hands on me in years, he still manages to find ways to touch me. I tried going into hiding, I tried escaping, I tried hiring men to track him down. Marrying Harry was all about getting away. Nothing works.”

“Sansa… Why didn’t you tell me?”

Her eyes darken. “Baelish is my burden, not yours. And I didn’t want you getting hurt. Ending up like Harry.”

Jon’s hands become white-knuckled fists. “Like Hell, this isn’t my burden. Sansa, if I had known, I’d have done everything possible to protect you!”

“That’s the problem,” she replies, “And besides, you’ve built your own life, Jon. You were offered the whole Targaryen railroad, and you decided to strike out on your own, instead. If you’d known, you’d have given up your independence so you could use your family to help me. I couldn’t let you do that.”

“That’s not up to you!”

“It is!” She shouts, “Baelish didn’t hurt you! My suffering isn’t about you! I’ve earned the right to make decisions about my own life, Jon! What happened to me isn’t about what you want! I don’t deserve to be made into the instrument of your suffering!”

“You don’t deserve to live like this, either!”

“It’s my choice, regardless! I’ve had enough choices taken from me, Jon! You’re not taking this one from me!” She stops then. Quickly, she gathers her composure, drying her eyes and lowering her voice. With the posture of a duchess, she clears her throat. “I appreciate your chivalry, Mr. Targaryen, but I prefer to attend to my own affairs. It was lovely to see you again, but I’m afraid I’m weary from my performance. I must retire. Good luck with your future endeavors.”

Jon isn’t sure how to feel, except poorly. Guilt and shame take him, but so does anger. “I’m a bounty hunter, Miss Stark,” he tells her, “It’s my job to bring in criminals. There’s a hundred thousand dollars on Petyr Baelish’s head. It’s in my professional interests to take him in. And what’s in my professional interests is purely my affair. Now, if you don’t wish to aid me in this, that’s your choice. I guess I’ll just have to pursue him without that advantage.”

She opens her mouth to speak, but Jon cuts her off. “Good day, Miss, thank you for a fine show.”

Jon turns on his heel and makes for the door. He’s reaching for the knob when she speaks.

“If you die, I’ll have no one but him. Does that mean nothing to you?”

This makes him sick. She’s right. But damn it, he can’t just let Baelish keep on with this. Especially now that he knows even more. There’s silence. She speaks again.

“If that doesn’t, what about this… If you go after him, I’ll find a way to contact and reach Baelish before you do. I’ll give myself over to him. And we’ll be gone forever. He’ll have me.”

Now he shakes. And he turns. Sansa’s expression is determined. Tears prick at his eyes.

“How could you say such a thing?” He asks, horrified.

“Because I’d say or do anything to spare those I love,” she replies, “And I love you, Jon.”

He feels like his heart is literally clutched in her delicate hands, and that she’s squeezing it to try and make it burst.

Shame overtakes his rage. But within that, there is joy. Sure, the ‘I love you’ is not in the context he’d consider ideal, but it was love. Incredible love.

Jon takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I know,” he says, “But I love you too, Sansa. You couldn’t even imagine how I love you.”

“I think I can,” she says.

“No,” he argues, a little embarrassed. He looks at the floor miserably. “You can’t.”

“Yes, Jon, I can.”

Something in her voice makes him look up.

She comes forward. A second later, her arms are about his neck, and her blue eyes become the whole world. “I can imagine a lot of things, Jon. I can imagine a perfect world, where I could offer you more than anguish and danger. Where sharing my life with you meant giving you all the good things you deserve. But I can’t. I know it’s selfish, but, I have to ask you to just stay alive, stay safe, and don’t let yourself become part of Littlefinger’s world. Stay free of it, please.”

A shudder goes through him. He seems to be absorbed. “Sansa, you don’t understand… I can’t be free of him until you are.”

“Why, Jon?”

“You know why.” He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to get his head to stop swimming. “I won’t go after him—”

“—Thank you—”

“—Alone.” He finishes.

“What?”

He opens his eyes again. “You’re right. This isn’t about me. I have no business taking justice for what he’s done to you out of your hands. But I also can’t sit by and allow this to continue. You’ve made your own efforts to free yourself. You haven’t yet. And I’d probably fare worse trying to end this. But what if we did it together?”

“What? I join you on your bounty hunt?”

“If you don’t mind roughing it a bit.” He smiles.

She smiles back, albeit with a slyness. “We’d have an easier time of finding him if he were baited. So, instead, you join me on my tour.”

Jon leans away, back pressing against the door. “Excuse me?”

“We play this smart. We use Baelish’s little games against him. After he’s betrayed himself enough, we ride out. But until then…” Her grin gets wider. “You’re my bodyguard. I’ll rough it, Jon Targaryen. But you have to smooth things out a bit first.”

He gapes at her. “Well… I suppose that’s one way to find him. I take it this means you agree?”

Sansa nods. “Once we do start ‘roughing it’, though, you’ll have to keep something in mind.”

“What?”

“It’ll take more than a fire to keep me warm at night.” She presses against him. Jon can’t think. She presses him against the door, intoxicating him. He wants to say something witty. But he can barely think. So he just tries for instinct and leans his face towards hers. Their lips meet and god damn, she’s perfect.

But she ends the kiss eventually. “The sun hasn’t set yet, Mr. Targaryen. There’s just enough time until then for you to take a bath.”

When she pulls away, her robe and lingerie have a dusting of brown over them. Fair enough. Sansa looks down at this, laughs, then heads for the dress screen. Jon moves away from the door, heading over to a side table by the window.

“You can take your bath here, and I’ll have Mya take your measurements as well,” she calls out from behind the screen, “You’ll need new clothes.”

In a minute and a half, she emerges in elegant street attire. “Well? Are you going to offer me your arm or not?”

He instantly raises his forearm toward her. She lays a gentle hand upon it. “I assume you know the way to the Jackson Hotel?”

Jon nods. It was just down the street.

“Good. I’m sure we can get you all fixed up there. Just keep your other hand on your pistol.”


End file.
